Fake Man
by SnowSybaris
Summary: Arthur wants Cobb. Eames wants Arthur. Eames is a forger. It all works out. Slash.


Prompt: Eames is in unrequited love with Arthur, Arthur is in unrequited love with Cobb. They have a system worked out, though-Eames poses as Cobb for him (Arthur is aware it's not really Dom), and they both pretend they're getting what they want. Angsty, I-can't-really-be-with-the-one-I-want-but-this-is-the-next-best-thing sex.

* * *

It's a good arrangement.

Eames tells himself this as he sits in front of the mirror. It's a dream, but he still looks terrible, there's this expression he's been wearing lately. Soul-sick puppy, Ariadne calls it, and he fobs the team off with some excuse about, yes, this grandmother, a Bristol sweetie, gave him cupcakes when he was young.

He has no grandmother, of course, Arthur knows. When Eames told them about her, he looked at him with a certain expression on his face, kind of expressionless. Arthur had a special sort of expressionlessness, there was that face he wore just before Mal thrust a gun under his chin and blasted him into reality, while Cobb watched, helpless. It wasn't quite the same thing, but-  
Eames shuts up about his grandmother.

His features waver in front of the mirror. Cobb, goddamn Cobb, he's memorized his features so thoroughly that they feel more familiar under his hands than his own. The sharp eyes, the unfamiliar curve of the nose, the thinner mouth, the shape of the jaw.

Dom Cobb is a good guy. Eames likes him well enough, respects his intuition and courage and intelligence, and he's such a fucking angel to his kids and friends that it kills him. If only Cobb was some shitty asshole whom he could hate with no reservations, it would be okay, but he isn't. These days, Eames spends so much time in Cobb's skin, trying to mold into the persona, that he feels like he understands him well enough almost to forgive Arthur for loving him.

Almost.

So Eames- drifts. Instead of hatred, which would have been better, there's just this awful pit in the center of his stomach these days, a feeling he just can't get rid of, dull and not even aching. He just feels dead, sometimes, especially when he catches one of those moments when everyone's busy, and Arthur knows it, and he takes the moment to stare- at- sodding- Cobb.

He looks away from the mirror, settling into the unfamiliar body- or not so unfamiliar, but anyway. Musses up his hair a little bit, because he knows it turns Arthur on. He's wearing a suit- one of Arthur's, he recognizes, and changes it. He looks pathetic enough already without projecting. Cobb in jeans.

Eames used to be hesitant about making Cobb look good in the dreams, but he quickly figured out that he got a better fuck when he did, and- the cincher-

Sometimes, when he takes the care to be fantastic... when they wake up Arthur sits up and looks at him like- like he's seeing Eames, not Cobb, and there's something in his eyes that looks wounded and grateful at once. When that first happened, Eames didn't sleep when he got home, instead fisting himself and staring up at the ceiling, remembering that look again and again, that precise second when it was him Arthur was seeing, and not Cobb, and he was feeling something. There was no satisfaction in it, and when he finally dropped to sleep at 5:30 am, he felt bruised all over.

If he woke up to find his pillow wet, well. Good thing extractors got immune to natural dreaming.

He shakes himself, and rides the elevator up (he knows better than to take the stairs- Arthur's mind, Arthur's Penrose steps. They don't use Eames' mind anymore, not after Eames went down solo to find that every single fucking projection had turned into Arthur. Arthur doesn't know, and Eames intends to keep it that way.) to the twelfth floor.

He manifests a couple of roses before knocking on the door. He thinks about saying 'darling', but doesn't- Arthur wouldn't be happy with that. Instead, he simply hands them over after stepping across the room and looks at Arthur in that very specific, intent way Cobb has of looking at people when he's fascinated or probing, that hot sear of azure that always turns Arthur's joints into jelly.

Arthur, as it were, takes a little breath, like he's being killed a little, and says, "You're getting better at this."

Irrationally, Eames feels hurt. It's Arthur who's always on his case for not being in character, and he conveys this- no, he does not convey this, he merely steps back a little and tilts his head towards the bed. Arthur places a hand on the table, and one on his tie, and closes his eyes.

Eames helps him strip. Arthur's not really wearing a suit, for once, he's down to a shirt and some lovely dove-gray trousers that shimmer in the lamplight. They were on the buttons, hands almost entangling but not really, Eames standing too close. Arthur puts his head on Eames' collarbone and sighs, a little too deeply, and Eames wonders if Arthur thinks of him at all- at all, at all, during these times, whether he knows that Eames feels like he can't breathe when he does these little things that make him humans. He touches the back of Arthur's neck, fingering where hair fades into smooth skin, the bump of the spine under the crisp white collar.

Then he stops thinking at all.

It's okay. It's fantastic. And he pushes the heartbreak to reality- he's dreaming now, he doesn't have to worry about this shite as he goes down on Arthur, hears that sweet almost-sob, that hitch of breath. Arthur's hands tangle around Cobb-blond hair, and he's doing his best to bring Arthur to the edge and just keep him there- he knows he's good at this, knows he's better than Cobb every will be.

"Dom," Arthur gasps, and makes this little mewling sound. Eames hears his head thud back against the wall, and knows that he must be losing all thought now. He draws back and blows on the slickened head, and hears Arthur scream against his wrist. He nudges the slit with his philtrum, then tilting his face up again so he can press his tongue against it, hard, and hears another muffled cry.

His thighs are quivering. Arthur has lovely thighs, really, and he takes the liberty of pressing a light kiss on the inner side of one before going back, this time suddenly enveloping everything, straining his lips against Arthur's balls, the hot glans pushing against his throat, and-

Oh-

Arthur's making a certain sound, and Eames takes a few moments to savor it before moving on to humming- it's a whole-body vibration, and Eames could brace his forehead against Arthur's taut abdomen and probably feel it trembling in him, but it's just one of those things- that Eames instinctively knows that Cobb wouldn't do, Cobb would, Cobb would-

Like this, hum- (Hum: No, I regret nothing, I regret nothing, I regret nothing)

Arthur spasms.

He can't taste it at all, Arthur's too deep for that. For one moment he feels suspended in time, like he can stay here forever, connected with his throat contracting around that hot pulsing flesh. But then Arthur draws his own hips back, too sensitive, and stares at the ceiling, probably mind-blown. Eames can see the curve of his sharp chin against the beige ceiling.

"Second go?" he asks languidly, perhaps in that moment more Eames than Cobb, but Arthur doesn't seem to notice, that much.

"Yes," he says, absently, and when he looks down at him again there's a wild drugged-out look in his eyes that says, I could die with this, do whatever- whatever- whatever you like. He looks utterly debauched. Eames loves him. Eames hates him.

Eames fucks him.

Sometimes Arthur likes it gentle.

Maybe he's fucked up in front of Cobb, not horribly, one of those things that one can just casually pass over, but Arthur- can't. Maybe Cobb has been a little too happy with his boring life and his children and his memories of a dead wife (if only he knew that Arthur's projections rippled sometimes, feminine and dark-haired and beautiful-eyed women that Eames, for most part, tried to ignore), a little too you-can-go-your-own-way-Arthur, the worried glances Cobb gives him when he thinks Arthur can have a better and safer line of work and thinks he should leave. Leave.

Those times, Arthur just curls up in the bed, miles and miles of soft-muscled skin, elegant lines and contrasts, and they neck. They don't use their teeth at all, and only the soft pads of their fingers to pull closer. Arthur lets him get away with talking, those times, and Eames hoarsely blurts out in Cobb's voice that it's okay, I want you. He avoids British colloquialisms and never ever says darling, or love, because Cobb never would, Cobb's all rough, silent affection that tongues at the neck in request for forgiveness instead, and he would- like that- sigh into Arthur's hair.

But mostly, they are brutal about it, quick and hard, slamming in and out, teeth clamping down on shoulders, nails digging into hips, Arthur making that hoarse little sound every time Eames rips down the line between pain and pleasure. It's a good way to forget that none of this is what they want. They never talk about it, but they can both tell that while this kind of fucking is not what either of them really likes, it's the best way of dealing with things.

Eames takes what he can get.

He's still mostly clothed, using his knees to push out Arthur's own, spreading them a further than necessary, just for the pleasure of seeing that arse jut out, tremors shaking the ridge of that spine. He leans down to bite- not hard yet- at a sweat-slicked cheek, and Arthur yelps into his palm.

Eames is good at rimming, too, but he's not using any technique now. He uses his hands to spread Arthur's cheeks, harder than necessary, more for effect than convenience. He goes hard and sloppy and fast, and if it were possibly to cut with a tongue, that was what he would be doing, thrusting up and laving the sphincter like he wants to tear it down lingually. Arthur's panting, shallow and fast. He props himself up on his elbows, arching in one graceful line of spine, before giving it up and falling down again. He turns his head on the pillow and reaches out to clutch the headboard, his eyes closed, mussed hair dark against the pillow.

They both know when he's loose enough to fuck, and by unspoken agreement Arthur turns around, his hip brushing against the sheet and leaving a trail of saliva behind (his thighs glisten with it as well). He's beautiful, beautiful, and Eames would lean over to kiss him, but he's not sure whether he's allow to, so he just- drives in, without any warning, and Arthur moves a foot up the bed, his head almost slamming against the wall. He screams, nothing to muffle it, and Eames watches his face tighten with agony and ecstasy.

Eames hooks Arthur's legs on his shoulder before the next thrust. Cobb's callused palms tighten down on Arthur's thighs, and he feels a little dark amusement when Arthur whimpers, tries to spread them so his feet can meet behind Eames' back. As if that would help.

Dream-world, they can have the libidos of teenagers, they can fornicate at days to end like rabbits in heat, but they don't. At most, it's twice- they stick to the formula, fellatio or fuck, they don't like getting too adventurous. It's not about enjoyment anymore, not really, just a complete, devastating inability to stop. Eames triangulates his feet so he can drive in harder, his whole weight behind him, and the force of it shakes the entire bed. Arthur has to use his arms to shield himself from getting brained against the headboard, but he doesn't tell him to stop. There's no one in this room who would ever tell them to stop.

The first time, Eames had felt blessed- hooking himself up to the IV line, watching Arthur's eyes flutter shut while his own drugged vision spun and settled into darkness, and then some motel room where he could- it had felt at the time- have what he wanted. But these days, the only time he didn't feel like a piece of shite was at the very moment of climax, and everything after and before is consumed by a blankness that remains dominant even during pleasure, when one part of him in unbelievable pleasure and the other is just stuck in a listless limbo where the world heaves and rocks around him, Arthur heaves and rocks around him, and none of it matters, none of it.

He comes.

They didn't synchronize. Arthur is still gasping helplessly, his shoulders shaking, as Eames draws out. At one point he'd bumped against the wall and there is a bruise forming on his forehead, an angry mauve color. It's okay, just a dream, and Eames stares down at Arthur's face and feels judicious and sorry both at once, but mostly just terribly tired.

The moment is only half a second before he remembers that it isn't over yet and reaches out, takes Arthur's cock in his hand, and pumps. He forgets about being Cobb or not being Eames at that moment, just gazes at his hand moving up and down until Arthur, gasping a breathless little word, comes.

He absently rubs a thumb over the ejaculate on his hand and stares at the wall.

"You changed. Midway." Arthur says.

"Ah." Eames says, twisting to look at the mirror, and indeed he is Eames again, dark-haired and full-mouthed, and he's looking at a stranger. He thinks, where's Cobb? And his reflection looks so damn bewildered and hurt that he turns away to leave, because he can't stand it anymore.

Arthur does not speak until he's at the door. When he does, Eames turns to see him half-slumped against the wall, the bruise angry on his face, his eyes in shadow. "Saturday afternoon?" he says.

Eames doesn't even think, not even once, about saying no. "Yes." He says, and turns away to leave again.

Behind him, he hears the shot.

He leaves the dream, too, taking a leap out over the banister and flinging himself over into the Atrium, still naked, ignoring the scandalized cries of Arthur's projections (one of them has Mal's voice, he's sure of it, but damned if he'll check) and closing his eyes, folding his limbs into his body, hoping-

(Hoping: maybe this is real)

But he wakes up with a small jerk. Arthur's already standing up, not looking at him. They don't speak, they've said all there is to be said (Saturday afternoon). The room is darkened, the only light coming from the half-open door. He can see Arthur's face as a sliver of skin only, and the corner of an eye.

Eames is stupid. So stupid. He asks, "D'you- want to grab a drink? Before we go?"

"It's James' birthday." Arthur says, his eyes downcast, his fingers fluttering on the doorknob. The door closes.

Eames tips his head in the darkness.


End file.
